


A Preoccupation

by Dancains



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works, Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: (should make sense out of context though), Episode Related, Hastings low-key has a hand fetish, M/M, Military Uniforms, Pining, The mysterious affair at styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:20:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: “You’ve got a steady hand, Poirot, I must say.” Hastings thought for a moment. “I think I’ve only ever seen your hand shake once.”





	

“Is this your first time in London, Poirot?”

There was no response. 

Hastings watched as thick, nimble fingers mechanically stacked card after card into a neat little tower.

He had always had a bad habit of speaking simply to fill a silence, and couldn’t help but continue, “Mrs. Inglethorp must’ve been very wealthy, with this beautiful house and styles court.”

The only reply was the slight shuffling sound of the playing cards. He sighed. “Are you going to be doing this all day?”

“I steady my nerves. That is all.” Poirot replied softly without looking up from his card house. This annoyed Hastings, just slightly.

“This employment…,” Poirot gradually continued, eyes steadily on the cards, “requires precision of the fingers.” 

Hastings observed his movements closely as he applied two more playing cards to the top of the structure, delicately gripping them with the thumb and middle finger of each hand. A sliver of skin at his wrists became exposed as he adjusted his sleeves. Hastings didn’t know why he noticed this.

“And with precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain…and never have I needed that more than now.”  
“Absolutely.” 

Hastings knew that he should have been thinking of the case, as no doubt Poirot was doing, but for just this moment he found himself strangely transfixed by the pair of hands in front of him. It was an odd sort of habit he had picked up, he realized, stemming even from the first time he had met the odd little detective in Belgium. When his eyes weren’t on Poirot’s face they were always on his hands.

He was brought back to attention when Poirot spoke again.

“I can build a house of cards seven stories high, by placing one card on top of another, with a mathematical precision, ah. But I cannot find the last link in this so mysterious case!” His fists suddenly struck the table, causing the cards to topple and scatter themselves over green felt. Hastings stirred from his relaxed pose on the settee.

The room was tense with silence for a moment as Poirot uncurled his clenched fists and studied his hands and the table below them. He collected the playing cards, and again began to stack them into a card house.

“You’ve got a steady hand, Poirot, I must say.” Hastings thought for a moment. “I think I’ve only ever seen your hand shake once.”

Poirot placed another card on the side of the tower, “On an occasion when I was enraged, no doubt.”

“It was in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, just after we discovered that the locks on the dispatch case had been forced.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You stood by the mantelpiece, rearranging the ornaments as you always do, and your hand shook like a leaf.”

“because I was enraged. I was enraged at—,” he paused suddenly, his hands stilling. 

“Oh, mon dieu.”

“What is it?”

“I have an idea, that is all, but—mon dieu!” The cards toppled again as Poirot rushed out of the room, without another word of explanation. 

Hastings heard distant cries of “A garage! A garage!” echoing from down the hall. He got up from his seat and dutifully followed, finding himself next to Mary Cavendish as Poirot all but burst from the house in search of a taxi. 

After sharing a confused glance, he politely excused himself from Mary’s company to retire to the guest bedroom that the Cavendishs had so graciously offered him while they were in London. 

Without Poirot present, there wasn’t much else for him to do until dinner. In a way he felt almost useless. The ongoing trial was weighing heavily on all of them, and he realized he felt quite tired. Hastings made his way to the small room he was staying in, which was sparse though not unpleasant. Only a slight amount of light came from the curtained window as dusk settled around the city. He didn’t bother to light an oil lamp. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his boots slowly before putting them aside. In the dim light he could barely see the shine of the polish on their sleek leather surfaces. As he made a motion to undo his necktie, a recent memory resurfaced in his mind, of Poirot adjusting his tie for him back at his rooms in Styles St. Mary. 

He had the absent thought that Poirot probably took as much care undressing as he did dressing…not a pin out of place, that one. 

Drowsily, he let his eyes close as he unworked the knot of the tie, focusing on the smooth, silky feeling of the fabric under his fingers. He could easily imagine that they were Poirot’s dexterous hands instead of his own, knuckles barely rasping against his neck as they pulled the tie away from his collar, placing it ever so neatly on the nearby bedside table. 

In his mind’s eye, Poirot’s hands flattened against his uniform jacket--appreciating the well starched fabric, almost straightening the small folds that had been made when he had sat down. 

They swept down from his chest to his abdomen, bringing a tantalizing, practically tangible warmth. He imagined that he felt Poirot tug, almost playfully, at the leather strap crossed his chest. Fingers drifted down to brush over the polished metal buckle of his belt before undoing it, his hands moving around Hastings to remove it, carefully unfastening one of the epaulets on his shoulders before pulling the “Sam Browne” belt that crossed over his chest up over his head and out from under his arm. The entire belt was then placed on the table beside the tie.

One by one, the hands slowly undid the buttons of his dress uniform jacket, fingers brushing over his various service medals and pins. Hastings shrugged out of it before it was draped carefully over the back of a chair.

He stretched and rolled his shoulders before laying back on the mattress, sinking in to its softness. He felt more loose and relaxed than he had in years. Hastings could hardly decide if the touches he felt were those of his own hands or those of a ghost or a memory, or perhaps a dream. Regardless, he let himself submit fully to it.

Poirot’s hands roamed his shirt-clad chest appreciatively. Even with his long period of convalescence and inactivity, Hastings was in fine athletic condition. 

The Belgian was now kneeling on the bed, situated between Hastings’ long, lean legs. Though he had spent so long willing himself into ignorance, Hastings could no longer deny the nature of his observations and well-hidden glances. With both hands he held the face that hovered above him, pulling Poirot down into a searing kiss.

Those hands…those damned hands, he thought. They seemed to be everywhere at once. If this was a dream, he certainly didn’t want to wake up.

He moaned audibly into Poirot’s mouth before the two of them broke apart to breathe. He looked almost hazy, so close to Hastings’ own face, but he could have sworn the Belgian looked about as smug as the metaphorical cat who ate the canary. As their lips met again, Poirot began diligently working apart the buttons of his shirt, making his way down to the waistline of his olive-green trouser before hesitating.

“P-please, Poirot,” Hastings huffed.

The rest seemed almost like a blur of frantic motion as Poirot kneaded the heel of his palm against painfully tented drawers.

It was over almost as quickly as it had started. He found himself panting heavily, in a room that was certainly empty other than himself. The only thing audible was his own breathing, uncomfortably loud to his ears. He was glad his luggage had been brought up to his room, including a second set of his dress uniform. The large stain on his trousers would have been impossible to hide. 

He laid listlessly, listening to the sounds of London streets and the subtle creaks of the house. There wasn't much for him to do, except to wait for Poirot, and to pray that his highly perceptive friend wouldn't be able to decipher the uncomfortable guilt on his face when he returned.


End file.
